Something happened to me yesterday and I don’t know if I should tell anyone about it. The information is really juicy, and if it leaked out, it could be devastating. But I thought about it long and hard, and I figured the safest people to tell would be the people who read my blog – especially since there’s only four of you:

I sharted.

In case you’re not familiar, sharting is when you think you have to fart, but you end up shitting in your pants instead. The term “shart” was brought into mainstream America’s consciousness by the brilliant Philip Seymour Hoffman in the Ben Stiller movie Along Came Polly.

My shart wasn’t a big shart. It was a fairly small one, but still annoying enough since I was on my post-lunch toke-walk, several blocks away from my office. And to make matters worse, I had just eaten an extra cheesy chilidog.

As I was walking, I felt an air-biscuit in the chamber so I squeezed it out. Unfortunately, I miscalculated. What I thought was a fart turned out to be a small pocket of liquid turd – probably no bigger than a dime – but still big enough to make my eyes widen in horror. I immediately clenched my butt cheeks to contain the shart, and then I quickly speed-walked all the way back to my office.

Now before I go on any further with the story, let me take a moment to explain my bathroom situation at work.

I work in, arguably, the grossest building in Los Angeles. It was probably built sometime in 1972, and then cleaned once in 1974. The whole building just smells of mold, cigarette butts and body odor. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there are no locks on the exterior doors so bums are free to walk in and use the bathroom – at any time, day or night.

Every time I use the rest room, I have to pre-scrub the toilet seat with hand soap, dose it with kerosene, and then light it on fire to kill all the germs. And in addition to that, I also open up a fresh roll of toilet paper every time I sit down for fear of the last person to touch the roll before me. There are currently 47 rolls of toilet paper lying around in various stages of use. And I don’t care about the environment in this situation – my ass is way more important.

So anyway, once I got to the bathroom, I quickly went inside the stall to check my boxer shorts. And I was extra worried because I did laundry the night before, and I was wearing my favorite pair of boxer shorts – white shamrocks prints on green.

And despite the theme of my undies, unfortunately, the luck of the Irish wasn’t with me. Sure enough there was a small, circular, wet-spot where the shart exploded. Sadly, there was no way I could keep the shorts. I mean, maybe if I were at home, I could have saved them, but there was no way I was gonna stand in that disgusting bathroom and scrub my poopie boxer shorts over the stinking work sink.

But regardless of whether I kept them or threw them away, I had to get the boxer shorts off of my body – and I had to do it in the grossest bathroom in Los Angeles.

Getting my shoes off was easy enough, but the challenge lied in taking my jeans off without any part of my body – especially my socks – touching the bathroom floor. With that in mind, I grabbed hold of the handicapped rails like a gymnast on a pummel horse, and threw my legs up in the air like a “V.”

From there, I used only one arm to hold my body up, while I used my free hand to quickly remove my pants and boxer shorts. Then, in one swift move, I jumped off the toilet – and slid into my jeans – before landing in my shoes. It was really impressive since I have no kind of athletic ability whatsoever.

I casually walked out of the stall, threw my boxer shorts away, and used so much Purell that my hands started to burn.

All day, I felt so weird because I wasn’t wearing any boxer shorts. Although the material used to make boxer shorts is extremely thin, it still does an amazing job providing comfort, dryness, and protection. And because of that, I didn’t fart for the rest of the day because I had nothing standing between me and my pants if I accidentally sharted again.